


The Empty Vessel

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, No Fluff, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that there are no free mages under the Qun.</p>
<p>The Ben-Hassrath know that there's nothing more useful than a fact that 'everyone knows'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

a note, written in a Ben-Hassrath code:  
#53: mage, human, male, young. birthright hidden under robes - not well. Altus? Investigate.  
jotted beneath, in a second hand: _knows nothing of military value. sent to Hissrad_

* * *

The ox-men separate off him and another mage, some jumped-up Laetan that Caius vaguely recognises, the one who keeps going on about how he went to the Vyranthium Circle. Caius is Laetan, too, one who went straight into the army and spent all his time training to actually fight the ox-men, not talk about it, but you don't see him mouthing off about that one.

Drugs to inhibit magic. Bound, gagged, and separated from the other prisoners. He expects that much. They'll be on them for information next. He wonders if the Vyranthium-fucking-Circle taught that idiot how not to talk when a Qunari is rearranging his insides. Probably not.

He is not expecting to see another Tevinter slip into the tent from a side entrance, eyes flicking side to side nervously. He holds a finger to his lips, then carefully takes the gags off both of them. "Pavus?" the idiot says, in an exaggerated whisper. "What the--"

"Not here by _choice_ ", 'Pavus' says, hand flicking nervously to his neck. There's some sort of collar on him, ugly dark leather and metal. "Please be quiet. If they catch me here--"

Bruises below the collar, too. "Another captive?"

"He's Magister Pavus' son." the idiot explains. "He's been missing for _months_."

It's like a tiny little light of possibility on the horizon. Yes, Caius has been captured by Qunari and is being held alongside a mouthy social-climber but what could he get if he escapes from here along with a Magister's son? He has no intention of attempting to climb up the ranks, no illusions of what a man like him can achieve in the capital. He'll always be Laetan.

However, he wouldn't mind being Laetan, just a lot richer.

"The drugs they give you only last about a day. If we can stay away longer than that, you'll get your magic back, and you can get _this_ off me." Pavus says, indicating the collar. "Or if we can get to our allies."

"Main force is to the west--"

Pavus shakes his head. "I know. So do those beasts. I've _tried_ that way. Won't work." He rocks back on his heels, looking near-frantic. "Is there really nobody else?"

Caius shouldn't be saying this. Caius shouldn't really even _know_ this. But there's a Magister's son, helpless, panicking, looking for somebody, anybody, who will aid him, and there's memories of that place with the bell in Minrathous, turning him away because they know from a look that he's not got the coin to even so much as afford a drink, let alone a dance. "There's a second force. Coming down from the north-east, cutting across. Going to catch the ox-men in harbour, get those damn ships of theirs."

Pavus turns wide eyes on him. "That might work. Are you sure? You don't know what they'll do if they catch me trying to escape again, much less trying to take others with me. You have to be _sure_."

Caius nods. "Used to drink with a fellow. He was part of it. Probably shouldn't have told me where he was heading, but--" he shrugs. "If it helps us now."

Pavus nods. "Yes, it helps." Then he stands. "Hissrad," he calls, loud and uncaring. "I have something."

The largest fucking Qunari Caius has ever seen steps through the main entrance to the tent, and Pavus practically runs to him like a dog to its master, repeating everything Caius has just told him in a strange, flat monotone. Caius feels his heart sink. A Magister's son, working for the Qunari? It doesn't make any sense. And yet--

"Pavus, what are you doing?" Idiot hasn't figured it out yet, that he should really just _shut up_. "We were at the circle together, you traitor!"

The Qunari looks them over. "Is that true, Siddath?"

Pavus nods. "Yes."

"Good a test as any, then." the Qunari says, and pushes a knife into his hands. "I don't need that one. Kill him."

The horror is in the blank efficiency. He has seen Qunari cut many of his fellows down, but Pavus-- or 'Siddath', is it?-- simply takes the knife out of it's sheath, slits the man's throat-- he can't ever remember his _name_ \-- cleans the blade on his own clothing, returns it to the sheath, and returns the whole thing to the Qunari. He might as well have been told to kill a chicken for supper.

The Qunari just pulls out some sort of paper, jots down a quick note, and calls "Gatt!"

A third party-- this one an elf-- enters the tent. He gives Pavus a look of open dislike, and takes the folded bit of paper from the Qunari. "We're to trust information this thing gets, then?"

"Just run the message, Gatt." the Qunari says, looking Caius over. "I'm about to confirm the information." 

The elf mutters something in Qunlat that _sounds_ like subordination before he leaves, but the Qunari ignores it. He has a hand resting on Pavus, the way a man might absent-mindedly pet a dog. "If it makes you feel better, 'vint, this one gave me a lot of trouble. Fought me for weeks. Now, though--" With one hand, he simply unlocks the collar. Pavus does not use the opportunity to set the Qunari on fire. If anything, he leans into the Qunari's touch, shivering like he wants the horrid thing back on. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm using you to make a point. Now, tell this fellow what you'll do if the 'vints capture you back."

"Be Dorian. Get them to take my collar off. Kill as many as I can, then myself."

Caius doesn't want to believe it. A _Magister's son_. He knows the Qunari have ways to wipe a mind, to render a mage basically tranquil, some sort of mindless slave, but this-- this is much worse. The Qunari replaces the collar. Pavus just stands there, like he doesn't know what to do unless he's ordered. "Don't worry." the Qunari says. "I don't intend to do the same to you. Takes too much time and effort. You're just going to tell me what you know. How much it hurts you to tell me-- that's up to you. Siddath-- corner, on your knees. Watch."

The command - and the lack of hesitation in obeying it - that just breaks something. "He's a Magister's son, you filthy ox. How _dare_ you."

The Qunari just stares at him, then laughs. "'vints and your nonsensical ideas about breeding. What does it matter _whose_ son he is? If it matters to you, though, I'll cut you a deal. You talk, and I'll give you a quick death. I won't even make him do it." He pauses, then, but Caius just bites his tongue. The ox can go fuck himself. "No? Ah well. I suppose we should get started."

* * *

a report, written in a Ben-Hassrath code:  
_Initial training of the mage complete. Hissrad says the attachment was unavoidable, a side effect of the conditioning. Falcon to falconer, Saarebas to Arvaarad. He probably believes he is telling the truth. Observation of both will continue._

Dorian prances into camp with a smirk, and brandishes the document he'd been sent to fetch like it was a noblewoman's fan. "Ta-da! And I didn't even have to kill anybody this time. Well, there might have been a _little death_ , but only in the Orlesian sense."

He winks at Gatt, who winces. "Hissrad, put him back on the leash already. He creeps me out when he's like this."

"Siddath." Hissrad says calmly, which is all it ever takes. Dorian falls off him like a discarded mask, and it is Siddath who walks calmly to the other side of the fire, lays down his staff, and bows his head to let Hissrad put his collar back on. "Report."

Siddath does. How he got the information and what he had to do it. Names, places, potential weaknesses he picked up along the way. As even-toned when describing guard rotations as describing letting someone fuck him to gain access to the building.

He doesn't know what Gatt's talking about. Siddath 'on the leash' creeps Hissrad out far more than just about anything that doesn't involve the thought of demons in his skull.

Ironic, really, since Hissrad's the one who _made_ Siddath, who took Dorian and hollowed him out until there was just Siddath, the weapon the Ben-Hassrath required. Those were his orders; Dorian just happened to be the one he'd chosen to fulfill them. In a way it was kinder than the _qamek_ ; better than a knife across the boy's throat.

Question: since when did Hissrad feel the need to justify his actions beyond _it was what the Qun required of me_?

He doesn't want to dwell on the answer.

Some days he wonders if the knife would have been the better option, though.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we head south

a note, written in a Ben-Hassrath code:  
_good progress with Pavus. Very suggestible with the right dosage. Leverage point acquired. Pleasure will break him as easily as pain would. Leaves more of use behind, too._  
scribbled in the trade tongue in frustration on a corner, later torn off and thrown in a fire: _'vints are so weird about sex_.

Hissrad is not Arvaarad, since he is Ben-Hassrath, and Siddath is saarebas but not Saarebas, since he is also Ben-Hassrath. This makes the entire situation a little more complicated than usual, but it boils down to this: nobody is completely sure if Siddath's conditioning will hold if it isn't Hissrad keeping a close hand on his metaphorical leash, and nobody wants to test that theory any time soon.

So when Hissrad becomes 'The Iron Bull', there is no option but for Siddath to come with him. It will at least lend legitimacy to a claim to be Vashoth, and Siddath has proven to be a useful tool, one the Ben-Hassrath are in no hurry to disgard, despite the risk. One more apostate mage wandering the south with a mercenary band is neither here nor there, but a Tevinter mage following about a Qunari requires a little more explanation. Siddath needs a backstory that will hold up for months, perhaps years, not a week of flirting in the backwaters of Seheron with men who will probably be dead before they move on.

"Dorian is a common enough name." Siddath says. "Laetan, from a family of no particular rank. Plenty of those, too. He thinks 'The Iron Bull' is just a Vashoth mercenary, someone who helped him out when he was running from a wicked Magister who wanted to use him for blood magic rituals. They'll believe that." He switches a moment, a flash of Dorian's smile with something hesitant behind it. "I'd rather not discuss the details."

Hissrad nods. Siddath is good at wrapping fragments of truth in with his lies. It's part of what makes him so effective. "You'll share my bed. We can't have you on this--" he motions to the collar. "Not in the South. So I need a good reason to keep you close."

Siddath hesitates a little at this, but nods, obedient. "Yes. You keep me safe. Make me safe. It's better that way. A weapon in your hands."

The idea of being off the leash for an extended period of time makes Siddath so nervous Hissrad almost feels bad about looking forward to it. To seeing what happens. "A weapon in my hands." He presses a hand against Siddath's chest. "And the moment I think you're truely a danger, I'll put a blade right through this heart."

"Thank you."

It's the right answer. But Hissrad remembers the young mage who spat in his face-- _Kill me then, I'd rather be dead_ \-- his eyes so wide and vunerable at Hissrad's hand on his throat, like he hadn't really thought Hissrad was capable of it. Who had fought him, even under the influence of a dozen different drugs, while Hissrad had maybe been a little circumspect in his reports because they would have said to cut his losses, cut his throat and move on.

That would have been a waste. And Hissrad was right, because look at him now.

Like demons in his fucking skull, and it's a thing of his own doing.

* * *

Scribbled in Tevene in a small book Krem keeps well hidden: _Can't quite work out Dorian. If he's really Laetan, he's posh Laetan. He does a good act, but it's the little tells you wouldn't know if you weren't from Tevinter. Suppose he has a reason, though._

A few pages further on: _All I got out of him in the end was 'safer if you don't know' and some drunken flirting. Doesn't matter either way if he watches our backs on the field-- also, Dorian, since I know you keep going through my things, that's not an euphemism for anything. Also fuck off out of my stuff._

Dorian flirts and flatters his way through the South with the same ease which he uses his magic to call lightning or set some guy on fire right before The Iron Bull takes said guy's head off (note: flaming heads? _awesome_ ). He can play shy and unsure if he needs to but prefers boldness.

They are together but not _together_ , and the Chargers accept Bull's _perfectly happy just to watch him go_ or Dorian's _I'm very difficult to please. It's best done as a group effort._

It's better than the truth, anyway.

He wonders, sometimes, if this is what Dorian, the real Dorian, would have wanted to be. Bright and shameless and unafraid. Except of Templars, but he and Dalish have Bull to hide behind in that case, even if Dalish insists on muttering about oppression of traditional elvish archery when it happens, and Dorian likes to play along in the most ridiculous manner.

When Dorian finds out about Hissrad, during a mission where it becomes necessary to show his hand, they have a drag-out, knock-down fight about it that starts with Dorian threatening to set him on fire and ends with a bout of sex that leaves Dorian bruised and Bull bloodied (sharp little teeth, sharp little nails, sharp little mage) and with a bill to pay for the furniture they broke at the inn.

Entirely an act, of course, for the benefit of anybody who might be paying attention, as _Siddath_ has no reason to be surprised about _Hissrad_. Granted, he hasn't spoken to Siddath in over a year; he doesn't give him specific instructions, just lets Dorian do his thing and then, since part of Dorian's thing is boasting about all his antics, in bed and out, gets the information that way, writes it down, sends it off and goes for another drink.

He doesn't need Siddath, here in the South. Dorian is a much more useful tool, and there's no value in having him break character for no reason. The risk of exposing Siddath's nature is far too weighty a thing, and the risk that Dorian slips his leash is... The Iron Bull could handle it. By himself, he'd be picked up as an apostate in days, anyway.

He thinks these things, and wonders how much of it is that he's looking for an excuse. Does it matter? Dorian remains _Dorian_ , and Bull sends his reports home and tries not to specify exactly how he's making sure Siddath is 'safe'.

Then the sky explodes, and it doesn't matter either way.

* * *

Part of a report delivered to Leliana: _Unclear as to his precise origins but it appears he has accompanied The Iron Bull since prior to the formation of the Chargers - if he's a Venatori spy, they're playing the long game. And if he's a Tevinter spy hanging out under the nose of a self-admitted Ben-Hassrath, he's either brilliant at his job or completely insane. Balance of probabilities says his story is true, but we'll keep an eye out._

"So," the Herald of Andraste says, brow furrowing. "You're a Tevinter mage who hangs about with a Qunari spy? Is that not-- a little bit dangerous?"

"I am a special snowflake." Dorian replies. He's far too into Trevelyan's space for it to be casual. Trevelyan's clearly aware of this, and also clearly doesn't mind. "Also, in my defence, I didn't know he was a spy when I met him. And not in a position to ask too many questions other than _how quickly can you get me over the border_?"

"Why did you even want to leave? I thought mages ran things in Tevinter." Trevelyan says, one of those questions that all the southerners ask, confused about the concept of Mage versus Magister.

Dorian laughs, softly. " _Magisters_ run things in Tevinter. And woe betide those who get in their way, mage or not. I'll leave it at that, I think."

Bull has seen him run this con a thousand times-- hints of escaping from Dark and Terrible Things go down very well with southerners. He supposes it's not a con so much as fudging the details. Dorian ran for good reason. He knows that. He ripped that information out of him and used it.

Maybe he should tell Dorian to back off a little on Trevelyan, though. He's not the usual mark, he doesn't _need_ Dorian to worm his way into the man's bed. What with all that old-fashioned Chantry fervour surrounding this mess, it might even work against them.

Except he can't _tell_ Dorian. He'd need to _order_ Siddath.

In the end, he does nothing. Writes his reports, passes information to Leliana, fights whatever things need fighting, drinks with his boys afterwards. Dorian flirts with everything in sight, pouts when he fails to get Trevelyan to commit to more than idle flirting, and pays back Bull for teasing him about it by breaking into his room and fucking two Templars in his bed.

It's not exactly much of a revenge plot, as these things go, granted.

Bull starts to get comfortable in Skyhold.

He ought to have known better.


	3. Chapter 3

fragment of a letter, folded up and used as a bookmark in one of several tomes sent by the University of Orlais to the Inquisition: _...direct translation would be 'Empty Vessel', although as with many terms in Qunlat, the true meaning is far more complex. My Tal-Vashoth acquaintance described it as 'a mental state of openness to truth' - by which the Qunari mean, the Qun. Pressed for details, she told me that while the term can be used for a state of mind obtained by diligent study of the Qun, siddath is more commonly used to describe what the Ben-Hassrath do to recalcitrant prisoners. A breaking of the self, to create an empty mind into which truths of their own making can be placed. The concept is distasteful, of course, but interesting in light of our previous discussions on self-conceptualisation..._

* * *

Magister Pavus comes as a complete surprise.

Bull is in the tavern in Skyhold, laughing as his boys raise their voices to drown out the awful bard, when Dorian shoots through the door like an arrow, onto his lap and pressing against him like he wants to bury under Bull's skin. It only takes a moment to realise-- it's not Dorian. 

He picks him up, says something to Krem about giving them some space, and takes him to a corner. "Report."

"Dorian's father." Siddath says. "It-- it doesn't match up. I-- _orders_ , Hissrad."

Well, _shit_. "I need Dorian now. Make the stories match up. Dorian lied-- that's fine. He lied because he didn't want to be found. What did he do when he saw his father?"

"I hit him with a paralysis spell and bolted." Dorian says, shivering. "In front of at least a dozen witnesses, including the Inquisitor. _Shit_. He found me, he found me, how the _fuck_ did he find me?"

_Good to have you back_ , he doesn't say. "Whatever it is you're worried about, I won't let it happen. You want to stay here, you stay here. You want him to fuck off and never come back-- I'm sure I can manage."

It doesn't take long before Leliana appears. "Dorian."

"He should be happy I didn't set him on _fire_." Dorian snarls at her, still within the circle of Bull's arms and with a hitch in his voice that, if it's faked, is amazing. "What does he even _want_?"

Leliana eyes him coolly. "Apparently, to talk to his son."

"He's probably with the Venatori." Dorian says. "It's probably a trap. The Inquisitor should do that whole Judgement thing."

"The _Inquisitor_ ," Leliana says, "Is hearing Magister Pavus' side of the story. I think he would also like to hear yours."

"He can do that without me having to go anywhere near my father." Dorian points out. "Also, you haven't left him _alone_ with the Inquisitor, I hope. Do _not_ trust him."

"Cullen and Vivienne are there as well." Leliana says. "This isn't a request, Dorian."

" _Fuuuck_." Dorian says, and then sighs. "Bull comes with me."

They're using Cullen's office, apparently-- actually, that's smart, it's away from prying eyes and surrounded by templars. Magister Pavus is an older, stockier version of Dorian, and the second he lays eyes on Bull he jumps to his feet "You-- what have you done to my son, you ox?"

Leliana made Dorian give her his staff; the Magister has obviously been similarly disarmed. Bull suspects this is the main thing that stops some sort of fireball fight breaking out then and there. "Don't _start_ ," Dorian snarls, instead. "I'm going to make this quick: yes, he's my father. He was planning to use blood magic on me, I found out, I ran. Bull helped me get over the border."

There's a collective intake of breath at _blood magic_. Including from him; Hissrad knows everything, but Bull only the 'blood magic, evil magister, ran away' bits. "Wait, the guy you were running from is your _father_?"

"You cannot believe the lies this beast has put into my son's head." Magister Pavus says, sour-faced. "His birthright was found in the hands of a Qunari spy, and now _this_." He gestures to Bull.

Ah, _shit_. He hadn't thought about what use the Ben-Hassrath might have put a Altus birthright to, or what the chances were that the Tevinters would catch them. He sees the Inquisitor frowning in thought. This could go bad.

But Dorian just sneers at his father. "You'd like that, wouldn't you. Anything to make it not your fault. I _sold_ the pendant, which is probably how the Qunari got hold of it, and I'm in the South of my own free will-- you have noted the fact that my lips aren't sewn shut, I hope." His gaze flicks to Leliana. "Lady Nightingale, the matter we were discussing? The timing's awful, but I think it will clarify things."

Leliana nods. "For your information, Inquisitor, Dorian and I have been discussing for some time the possibility of him leaving the Chargers and joining the Inquisition as an independent agent. He has taken on a few small jobs for me already, usually when The Iron Bull has been away from Skyhold."

He-- _what_? Bull doesn't have to fake surprise at that. Yes, he gives Dorian room to improvise, quite a lot of room. The improvisation doesn't normally take the form of _blatantly slipping his leash altogether_.

"Nothing personal." Dorian tells him. "But I'm quite fond of Skyhold, and the mercenary life is not really one I aspire to long-term. The Inquisition can provide opportunities-- pity about the wine selection, granted. I have no intention of returning to Tevinter, but I also no longer have to hide in your shadow every time a Templar walks past."

"Amazing." Vivienne comments, from her position behind Trevelyan, staff angled unsubtlely towards Magister Pavus. "I think I may be approving of your life choices. Somebody make a note of the date-- this may never happen again."

"Dorian--" his father tries, but to no avail.

"Go home, father." he says, flatly. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Then he bows neatly to Trevelyan, turns on his heel, and walks out.

Bull doesn't stop him.

* * *

He sees Dorian again that night, after an awkward discussion with Trevelyan in which Bull tells more lies in ten minutes that he has in probably the last three months, and after Magister Pavus has been politely escorted off the premises. Mostly politely, anyway, because he wasn't particularly happy and because Sera decided to get involved half-way through, but at least without bloodshed.

It's accidental; at least on Bull's side. They meet in a section of corridor in Skyhold that seems a little too conveniently distantly located and empty to be entirely coincidental. "Well. I've had less horribly traumatic days." Dorian says, and then, "You're pissed about me leaving? That wasn't how I was planning to tell you."

He sounds genuine. It's soft, and a little hesitant. "I'm sorry." is what comes out of Bull's mouth. "Do you know that?"

"Why _sorry_?" Dorian asks. "You've never done anything to _me_ that would require an apology." He steps closer, his eyes dark and steady. Suddenly his tone changes. "Not to _me_ , Hissrad. You aren't getting your stories mixed up, are you? Tsk, tsk."

Someone stares out at him from those dark eyes; not Siddath, not the 'Dorian' he made Siddath be, but someone else. He is obviously displeased. "Who are you?"

"I'm the boy who ran away from home and then _nothing bad happened to_." Dorian says, lips quirking. "I like that one. It's my favourite lie. So, what now?"

"What now?"

Dorian presses one hand to his chest, delicately. "Will you put a blade right through this heart? You might struggle to make it look like an accident."

He is _bas saarebas_ , truly, perhaps the most dangerous of all, and Bull should. "That depends. What are you planning to tell the Inquisition? The truth?"

Dorian laughs. " _True_? What's that? You were the one who taught me to be the empty vessel, the thing you could fill with convenient lies and make them true. Well, now I'm going to pick the lies I like to fill me up. I'll be a better Dorian-- not the disappointment who let you break him, and not the dog on the leash. So, no, I won't speak to anybody of things that _never happened_ , Bull."

"Oh, I'm 'Bull' again, am I?" He wonders if Dorian even knows what he's doing now, switching between selves, between the boy who has every reason to hate him and the man who has none. Who will win out, in the end? He can't even begin to guess.

Dorian shrugs, and walks away. "If anybody wants me, I'll be in the barracks." he calls over his shoulder. "Raising morale."

For a second time, Bull lets him go.


	4. Chapter 4

Written when Dorian's attention drifts, in the middle of a report for Leliana on Venatori barrier spells, and almost immediately destroyed in a panicked burst of fire: _...but luckily Venatori mages are generally not particularly endowned with a great deal of imagination, so knowledge of these three types is **it will stop hurting if you let him make you safe. why won't you let him make you safe? filthy, ungrateful bas...**_

Dorian starts doing more work for Leliana; a couple of runs out to the Western Approach, a lot of deciphering of Venatori tomes and codes. Bull says nothing about it. The boys notice, of course, that they spend less time together.

"Don't give him too hard a time, Chief." Krem says, sliding a full tankard of ale across the table. "Can't blame him for wanting to put down roots. Besides, you'll still have me to make 'vint jokes at."

"I'm not giving him a hard time." Bull says, staring down at his beer. "Also, you knew about this?"

"A bit." Krem shrugs. "Vints got to stick together. Also, I don't have the massive blind spot you have."

He does not have a 'blind spot'. "Is that an eye joke? Are you really going there, Krem? I thought you were a better man than that."

Krem shrugs again. "More like, maybe if you'd get your face out from between his legs you'd be able to see the bigger picture."

Skinner cackles in his other ear, and even Grim grunts in a vaguely amused way.

"Is he alright, though?" Rocky asks, from across the way. "Even for him, he's been reckless lately."

"'s dad, right?" Skinner replies. "There's one shem I'd happily slit the throat of. No charge."

"Yeah." Bull agrees, ignoring the knowing look Krem is giving him. "That's probably it. He's just working off some steam."

Like he's trying to cram as much living if he can into each day, and damn the consequences. Bull watches, because those consequences might end up being his to clean up, but he doesn't interfere. Dorian knows how to be discreet, if he wants to, and Bull knows when somebody's baiting him.

What he ought to do, if he was following protocol, is quietly contact an operative, let them know Siddath is off the leash, and arrange for Dorian to meet with an unfortunate accident when he's out in the field-- 'rogue Templars', something of that sort.

Sometimes protocol doesn't fly when you're out in the field. Bull's just making a judgement call.

If he doesn't make any note of it in his reports, well, that's a judgement call, too.

Look, he doesn't want some blundering agent ruining his setup here over one Saarebas, that's all.

* * *

Slip of paper on Cullen's desk: _Supply list for Griffon Wing Keep has been dealt with; Knight-Captain Rylen's requests are mostly reasonable but in my personal opinion, we cannot commit that many troops to the Western Approach. He'll just have to make do. There was also a letter for Dorian Pavus, presumably a personal thank-you for his recent assistance. Starkhaven folk are sticklers for that sort of thing. Leliana examined it before passing it on, just in case, but assured me there was nothing untoward._

_...she's terrifying when she giggles._

"You're like Solas' friend." Cole says, out of the blue.

"What?" Cole still creeps him out sometimes. It's just lucky that he seems to stay away from Dorian most of the time. "You're going to have to explain that one." Also, 'Solas' friend' means a fucking _demon_ right? He's being compared to a demon?

"It hurts to go against your nature. You only wanted to protect them-- strong like a sea wall, I can take the hits and shield the rest-- but they made you hurt to protect, twisting, binding him so there doesn't have to be blood."

Trevelyan and Ma'am are examining the Venatori corpses-- or at least, Trevelyan is, Ma'am appears to be taking a supervisory role. "Yeah, well-- sometimes what you gotta do aint pretty. No helping it." He looks over again, judging the distance. "What does _he_ think about all this?"

"A lot of things. His hurt pulls in all different directions, and I don't know how to fix it. None of him likes him." Cole looks pensive, under the hat. "Sometimes he wants to be empty again, no hurt, no confusion, pure and true as a blade. A weapon in your hands. It was easier. But the hurt makes him real, so he holds tight to it, forgetting what he's supposed to forget. His mask _likes_ your mask."

And now he regrets asking. "Don't tell anyone else about Dorian, okay? That stuff's private."

Cole nods. "All of him is full of secrets. Hushed and hidden, bowed and bound and broken-winged."

And now he _really_ regrets asking. At that point, the other two come back-- Trevelyan because he's found a dagger he thinks Cole might like, and Ma'am to eye the bloodsplatter on Bull's chest with distaste and make him feel about knee high-- and all further discussion of the matter is thankfully cut off.

(although not really knee-high, because knee-high to him is playing Defenders of the Qun as Tama makes her notes and smiles indulgently when he promises to protect her from the enemies-- vague, formless things in his mind that they are-- but doesn't neglect to correct him, for he should promise to protect all the children of the Qun, not just her.

"I _meant_ all the Tamas." he replies, because when Tama corrects him like that it means the thought is wrong and must be changed. She accepts his self-correction, rubs his head gently.

It's his first real lie, because his Tama is _his Tama_ , and he knows of nothing more important.)

* * *

Note written in a Ben-Hassrath code: _Confirmation has been given, permission granted. We will proceed. Unfortunate to lose a useful tool, but he has left us with little choice. If the mage is not removed, chances are we'll lose Hissrad, too._  
In another hand, below: _Told you he was too soft on that thing_

Fucking Adamant fucking Fortress.

Fucking demons.

He hates fucking demons.

He hates them even more, it turns out, when they're in the Fade, which is nothing _but_ fucking demons, even the ground is probably made of demons, and the biggest one of all is a smug bastard who likes to mockingly narrate their attempts to find it.

"Do you think he'll ever forgive you?" the voice asks. "Do you think he still can? Are you sure you didn't cut away his ability to forgive along with everything else?"

He tries to ignore it. At least the smaller ones still die when you hit them. Bull's good at dealing with things that die when you hit them. It moves onto Hawke after that, then Trevelyan - probably just looking for weak points, needling to see what gets the reaction. He realise he's comparing the techniques of something called 'The Nightmare' to Ben-Hassrath interrogation techniques just as a demon slithers into sight-- it's a more than welcome distraction.

Naturally, Trevelyan has to go about exploring, as he does no matter how horrible the circumstances. Oh, they're trapped in the Fade? By all means, let's take a detour to _look around_. Let's look at a graveyard in the fucking Fade. Maybe there'll be more demons, like they haven't seen enough of those yet.

There are not demons, just little rows of stones, and a name catches his eye--

_Dorian_ , with, beneath it, _the empty vessel_. Next to it, a leaning stone reads _Siddath_ , and _the unbroken one_.

Behind those two, another, larger stone, and he knows he's going to regret looking before he does.

_Iron Bull_ \-- the, THE Iron Bull, you fade bastards, he thinks, before letting his eyes slide down.

_the liar_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pet theory: you know how the spiders aren't spiders? The graveyard looks different to different people, too.


	5. Chapter 5

Note on Josie's desk: _...I've sourced a black-market supplier in the meantime, but please do keep up the pressure on our mutual friend. Incidentally, guess who received another letter from Griffon Wing Keep? You better be prepared to pay up when I win our little wager._

It all settles; or, he thinks it does. Bull is busy with the Inquisitor, and Dorian keeps doing jobs with the Chargers, a few bits of side work for Leliana, but-- he settles, too. At least, he seems to. It involves a lot less drinking and fucking around where Bull will see him, and a lot more conspiratorial discussions with Krem that Krem refuses to tell Bull the contents of.

"If he wanted you to know, he'd either tell you, or announce it to the entire tavern and then pretend he wasn't doing it because of you." Krem says, shaking his head. "He's not in any trouble, Chief, he just needs someone to talk to."

"He could talk to me." Bull points out. "He talks to me." He always has, before.

Krem sighs at him. "It doesn't count as talking if you're naked at the time, Chief."

Fucking smart-ass 'vints.

He gives up on that one, and goes to check if the "letter from home" he's expecting has arrived.

It has. There's two.

There's never two.

He leaves the one that's obviously the standard report for a moment, and opens the other carefully. You'd be surprised by the sort of nasty shit someone can stuff inside an envelope, although he tries not to let anybody surprise him the same way twice.

Well, _shit_.

He needs to talk to Red. And, possibly, to find a way to quietly have Dorian assigned to some job as far away from the Storm Coast as possible.

* * *

He doesn't get Dorian quietly assigned elsewhere, because Dorian insists on accompanying the Chargers.

Or rather, Dorian smirks at him and says "If you haven't told them yet, Hissrad, not bringing me's just going to make it obvious." and, another time, "You do realise, Bull, I haven't actually left the Chargers yet, and I'm not letting you kick me out now."

When they get to the Storm Coast, he stays with the Chargers, and about the only thing Bull can be glad about is that Dorian-- any Dorian-- likes Krem and will happily follow his orders, which means he's not there when it turns out their contact is Gatt.

Of course it's Gatt.

They don't mention Dorian directly; Gatt says something about some of the Ben-Hassrath not being happy about him running around with mages, though, and for sure that's not a reference to Dalish. It might be nothing more than Gatt's long-established dislike of Siddath and all he stands for. The job seems straightforward enough, but down in his gut there's a deep unease. He's lost a lot of good men on jobs that seemed straightforward enough.

Kill a few 'vints; signal goes up; dreadnought goes in; smuggler goes boom. Straightforward enough.

Until it isn't. He _hates_ it when his gut is right.

If it came down to simple math, the answer should have been easy. He knows how many Qunari are likely to be aboard the dreadnought, a number far higher than the number of lives lost if the Chargers die holding that position.

But the math gets all fuzzy around the edges; likely reduction in Inquisition casualties given better information from the Qunari times the percentage chance that Gatt's been ordered to set this up to test him, to get rid of Siddath, or both, divided by nights he's spent letting off-tune drunken singing drive Seheron out of his head times the minimum age to serve on a dreadnought (fourteen) equals...

Surely this was easy, once. Surely there was a time when he was without doubt, where thought and action were one, where the only question was _what is it the Qun demands of me_.

There was a time when he thought the title _Hissrad_ a compliment.

He hears the voices almost distantly. Gatt calls to Hissrad; the Inquisitor to Bull. As if he needs them to tell him how vital this decision is. As if he needs assistance to understand what's at stake.

It was Hissrad who came south, all those years ago. It's The Iron Bull who makes the choice.

He expects Gatt to be furious; he knows Gatt furious, knows the kid who knew nothing but anger, burning hot and righteous.

The anger is there for a moment, bright and familiar, and then it's replaced by something cold and sharp. "I always wished you'd chosen the knife for him." Gatt says, evenly. "I _knew_ he'd slip his leash eventually. I _knew_ you'd let him. I wanted to be wrong. Inquisitor." he says, turning to Trevelyan now. "This is the last piece of information you will receive from the Ben-Hassrath. The Tevinter mage in _Bull's Chargers_ , he was one of ours."

Bull sees the words coming in slow motion. He expected it, now it's come to this. It's natural; undermine his position, make them mistrust Dorian. He holds still, waits to see Trevelyan's reaction; violence or denial will not help his cause. Trevelyan just frowns. "You're claiming Dorian was a Qunari agent?"

Gatt laughs, short and explosive like his namesake. "More like a weapon. An unstable one. Be careful, Inquisitor. There's playing with fire, and then there's playing with fire around _gaatlok_."

He walks away, leaving Bull standing in front of Trevelyan, who would have to be a lot stupider to not have put two and two together. "So," the Inquisitor says. "Magister Pavus' insistence that his son had been abducted by Qunari."

The math on this one is easy. "I guess I have a story I need to tell you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to understand Hissrad makes my head hurt.

He doesn't start off doing this job; it comes about because one of his men snaps, out in the middle of pissant nowhere, and Hissrad's options are to make him see reason or cut him down before he goes Tal-Vashoth.

So he makes him see reason. It is the better choice, and Hissrad does not regret it.

Unnecessary death is wasteful. There is a place for everyone in the Qun.

Somehow, he gets a reputation for being able to talk sense into recaltriants. Hissrad figures they just need someone who's seen the worst Seheron can throw at them and gotten through it. Someone who can see the shape of them, figure out the cracks where you can split someone apart and put them back stronger.

They thank him, afterwards. Of course they do. He never questions it.

He's not sure who it is who comes up with the idea that one of their captured 'vint mages might be remade into something more useful to the Qun. With mages, normally, they get what information they can and then just kill them. Too risky to do anything else. Qamek if they're desperate for labor but in Seheron that's rarely the case.

Still, if there is a place for everyone in the Qun, surely even a 'vint mage might be made to see reason?

The first three candidates they pass to him, he has to kill within the first week. Four days, his longest streak. He doesn't regret it; they're 'vints. They would have happily slit the throat of every Qunari in this camp and used their blood to call up demonic horrors. It's the sort of thing 'vints do.

The fourth one is the kid. Old enough if he were a mere soldier, but young for a mage to be in Seheron, and the birthright that Hissrad twines around his fingers means, if it's real, that he really shouldn't be here. The highborn 'vint mages don't fight on the front lines, generally speaking. Don't get their hands dirty.

So why. Why is he here. When Hissrad yanks the hood off him and dangles the pendant in front of his face, he gets all the bravado he expected, insults (involving beasts of burden, not very creative) and threats (involving fire, same again), and underneath, something-- intriging.

He's not like the others. Hissrad feels that in his bones.

Unnecessary death is wasteful, and there is a place for everyone in the Qun.

* * *

"There were three types of mages who ended up on the front lines in Seheron." Bull says, meeting Trevelyan's eyes across the table. "Zealots like the Venatori, who just wanted to kill Qunari, ambitious assholes who thought they'd make a name for themselves killing Qunari, and poor bastards with no money or connections who'd drawn the short straw and just wanted to get out alive. A Magister, or a Magister's heir? Maybe in a well-guarded coastal encampment, surveying the fortifications and ordering people around. To find him where we did was odd to start with."

"Why was he there?" Trevelyan asks. "You don't just walk into a warzone on a whim."

Bull's not sure Trevelyan has high ground to stand on, on that one. The man is a walking warzone. "That part of the story's his to tell, if he's so inclined. He was an oddity, that's the point. He didn't feel like a threat. If anything, I felt sorry for him."

"Not enough to let him go, though." the Inquisitor says.

"Go _where_? He would have never lasted if I'd let him escape. It would have been more merciful to just slit his throat." Bull shakes his head, slowly. "Understand, boss, that everyone I knew was happier under the Qun. Even a Saarebas, I thought, would be content given his rightful place and purpose. All I had to do was figure out what that was, and put him in it."

"I am probably going to regret asking this next question." Trevelyan says.

"Probably." Bull agrees. "Never stopped you before."

Trevelyan pauses, visibly steeling himself, and nods. "What did you do to him?"

"It starts with isolation and dependence. He was bound, blindfolded, and in a collar we used for _saarebas_ that blocks magic. Drugs in the food-- there's a few things the Ben-Hassrath use, I started on the subtle ones. Just makes you a little more relaxed, little more talkative than you would be. I needed him to talk. Not about anything in particular, just so I could start to figure out what he wanted."

* * *

He's read the reports on the capture and subsequent interrogation. It is natural that the boy flinches at a touch, even if Hissrad is only examining him to confirm the damage matches the reports.

His captive clearly expects pain, but Hissrad is not here to give him what he expects. He is here to find out what the boy needs, the natural shape that all creatures have, and then find a way for him to express that through the constraints of the Qun. If pain is what is necessary to break him, then pain it will be, but Hissrad finds that too unsubtle a tool for most cases.

So he is gentle, and watches it confuse the boy; gives him room to talk, and ignores the ignorance, waits for his opening. The boy spits, and kicks, and wails-- _why don't you kill me, what are you waiting for_ \-- but death is not what he seeks. Hissrad tests this by pressing a hand to his throat, watching the breath leave him, slow, slow, and the eyes go wide, wide, no, I didn't mean it.

As the boy gulps air back into his lungs, eyes wet with tears, Hissrad sees an opening and slides a question into it like a knife. "Perhaps I'm waiting for a chance to ransom you. How handsomely do you think your father would pay?"

The answer comes, not in the words that follow, but in the moment of hesitation that precedes them.

A magister's son, and he thinks his father might just leave him here.

Once the first opening comes, the others are swift to follow. Hissrad finds a formulation that leaves him suggestible but not too unfocused, and works through a series of questions phrased to let implicit truths sink in. Tell me why it is you don't belong in Tevinter, he says, and the answer is a very telling "None of your business!", not a rejection of the question.

Unhappy, unhappy boy. Hissrad's resolve strengthens; he _will_ find the boy his place in the Qun, the purpose he so clearly requires. He will be happier. He says as much, and gets a scowl in return, but when he strokes gently along the back of the boy's neck he still leans into the touch a little. Since if he knew he was doing it, he would stop, Hissrad never mentions this fact. "I will take care of you." he promises, instead.

"What, by stitching my mouth shut?" the boy snaps back, immediate, predictable.

"That isn't done to _all_ Saarebas." he says in correction, and strokes his thumb across the boy's lower lip. "Seems like a waste in this case."

He adds the last in the voice he uses when his work requires seduction, rather than subjugation, and the boy's eyes widen before he recovers-- and bites. Ah, he's in that mood today. "Your teeth aren't that sharp." Hissrad points out, wriggling his thumb, and waits. After a moment, realising that he's managed to accomplish nothing by being a brat, the boy lets go. "Good boy."

A noise of frustration escapes the boy. "I am not a _child_." he says.

The file says nineteen, so that's arguable. Hissrad doesn't argue it, though. "Would you prefer 'pretty bas'?"

"I also have a name."

"You will do, when I figure out what it is. For now, 'pretty bas' will do fine."

"I _have_ a name, you stupid ox!"

He gets so touchy when Hissrad says 'pretty', this one. "A name that clearly doesn't fit, or you wouldn't be out here running away from it." When he says things that are true, like this, he can feel the boy tense under his hands, winding tighter. "You'd be back in Tevinter, drinking wine and dabbling in blood magic."

Very still now, very tense. Any mention of blood magic does this. "Not everybody in Tevinter--" the boy mutters, a common refrain, but it lacks fire.

"It must be hard to resist, I'd imagine." Hissrad says, paying very close attention to the reaction he gets. "All that power. No matter how much you insist you're against blood magic, the temptation will always be there. Just waiting for you to get desperate enough, for someone to push hard enough."

The boy shakes, clutches at him. "I wasn't _pushing_. I didn't make him do it."

 _Him_. His magister father, probably. Hissrad doesn't query it, as it would break the moment. "It wasn't your fault." he says, soothingly. "You want to be good. I know." He can see the words open him up, the drug-fogged mind not yet realising Hissrad doesn't know exactly what he's talking about. "You don't want to be like him."

"I _tried_." the boy says, and it's like the dam breaks, words spilling out of him. "I did all the things I should have. I even kissed her once-- you're supposed to break the rules a little, sneak off for a moment away from your chaperones so everyone can laugh over dinner about young love even though they all know it's an act. He was so pleased-- it was like he was only pleased anymore when I was lying. But I couldn't do it anymore. I knew he'd be angry. I thought maybe he'd disown me. I thought that was the worst it could get. I _never_ thought he'd-- just because I wouldn't marry her, just because of the stupid family reputation, that was all it took. So much for his _fucking_ principles."

Hissrad waits patiently until the words run out. The 'vints do have some weird opinions about sex. But they're useful here-- he's starting to come under pressure to show results, and confirmation of some of his suspicions gives him a useful angle and a way to explain why he's been playing soft so far. Soft will get them further, in Hissrad's opinion. If he adjusts the wording on some of his reports to give himself more time, that's just because he doesn't want to waste all the effort he's put in. "It wasn't your fault." he repeats, letting one hand return to the back of the boy's neck, rubbing gentle circles on the spot that makes the boy relax again. "He was wrong. You shouldn't be made to go against your nature. I wouldn't do that, pretty bas. I will help you."

There is a long moment of hesitation, and then, "Is-- is it allowed, then, under the Qun?"

"For two guys to fuck, you mean?" Hissrad says, smiling at the startled look. 'vints are so easily scandalised. "Nothing's a problem if it doesn't get in the way of your job. Why would it be? What's the big deal?" From the Ben-Hassrath perspective, it might be considered a bonus. Sex is a useful tool, and their targets are men more often than not.

The boy doesn't answer his question, although he looks like he's thinking this information over. The fact that he's asking questions about the Qun, rather than just spouting ignorant Tevinter propaganda at Hissrad, is the sign that matters. He's close, Hissrad just knows it. Like lancing a wound; he needs to clean out all the Tevinter poison, to break him down and empty him out, and then Hissrad will be able to fix him, to shape him into something new. Something useful.

Something happy.

There is a place for everyone in the Qun, and Hissrad is going to prove it.

* * *

"You see," Bull says, with calm he does not feel, "you can break a man with pain. You can make him talk. You can make him obedient out of fear. In some cases, you can even make him believe he deserves it. But if you really want to fuck with someone's head, break him with pleasure. Make him ask for it. That's what I did to him, Boss. What he _wanted_ , in return for his obedience. Until there was only the obedience left. _Siddath_. The purest state of mind, the empty vessel open to all truths. Without doubt, without fear, without _self_. A weapon in my hands, with no more will of his own than a blade."

Trevelyan frowns in that way of his. "Did you want to do that to him?"

What an odd question. "Want had nothing to do with it. It was my job. That or kill him. I was pleased to resolve the situation in a way that left him alive, yes."

"Because you didn't want to kill him." Trevelyan states, bluntly.

Really does't get the Qun thing, their Inquisitor. "It wasn't about what I wanted. It would have been a waste. I could solve the problem without killing him, so I did."

Trevelyan seems to accept that, or at least decides not to question it further. "Is it all an act? Did you tell him to flirt with me for information? Because he was coming on pretty strong for a while."

Yes. Bull _had_ noticed that. "He's Ben-Hassrath trained. Part of it was pretending to be-- well, himself, sort of. Part of it was using sex to gain information. When I brought him south I stopped giving him explicit instructions. But _flirt with everything that moves and try and get it to tell you things_ was part of his training. Not that you're a bad-looking guy, though. Maybe he just liked the look of you."

"I think that was _maybe_." Trevelyan says dryly. "The stuff with Leliana? That part of his training, too? Pretend to be at odds with you to throw us off the scent?"

"I don't know what that was." Bull answers, honestly. "He's been erratic, lately. Since we joined the Inquisition, maybe a bit before. Since his father came calling, especially."

"And yet," the Inquisitor says, giving him a very odd look, "you didn't do anything about it."

"I made a judgement call." Bull says, and then almost has to laugh at his choice of words. "Are you going to? _Judge_ me. I'll accept your decision." He may be Tal-Vashoth but he will not be some wild beast who can't accept the consequences of his actions. Especially the walking, talking, flirting, complaining about the cold and the dirt and the lack of decent wine consequences.

Trevelyan hesitates. "I don't think I can make a decision until I've talked to Dorian. I'm not really the wronged party here, Bull. Get some rest-- I'm sure Leliana will want to talk to you, too, and that's likely to be exhausting."

Bull almost winces. Red makes their Inquisitor look like a fluffy kitten, to be honest. Exhausting will be the least of it.

Yet it's something of a relief, too. Maybe it's not a thing that can be forgiven. Maybe it's not something he can put right. But to stop pretending it _was_ right, to stop trying to force the justification of _the Qun demanded it_ over his own instincts, it feels like setting down a burden.

It also makes him queasy to think about it, but that pretty much goes for his entire time in Seheron.

He pushes his door open, intending to catch an early night. His boys will worry if he skips too many nights of drinks in a row, but they'll also get that he needs time to sort out the whole Tal-Vashoth thing. Or, Dorian will decide that they should know the truth, and they'll be too angry with him to worry.

Well, he'll burn that bridge and grind it to ash when he comes to it. Ah, and now he's reminded of Seheron again. It might be that that saves him; that the memories of Seheron at the back of his mind also tell him when to duck, as flames go over his head. The curtains take the force of it, instead.

A very familiar torrent of abusive Tevene floats over his head, but Bull hardly needed to hear his voice to know. Very slowly, because he doesn't want to startle anybody, he turns.

If the fact that his curtains are a smoldering wreck wasn't a clue to his mood, the fire flickering angrily from hand to hand like a caged beast would have been. " _Tal-Vashoth_." Dorian says, the fire casting unearthly shadows over his face.

Given the relative distance between them, he could probably take him, even unarmed, with minimal scorching. Pin him down, knock him out. Instead, Bull spreads his arms, hands open, palms facing Dorian, and waits.


	7. Chapter 7

_A letter, later re-written to produce a fair copy handed to one of Leliana's agents for delivery to the Western Approach:_

~~Dear~~ Rylen,

You have been nothing but kind, and I am thankful for that. I wish I were able to return your feelings, but ~~I'm not even sure I could tell if I felt something real~~ I fear it is not within my capability to be the man you deserve. I will remember our time together with fondness.

Dorian ~~P-~~

* * *

For a moment, he's just still. The flames twist and coil, but Dorian is deathly still, like a statue. Or a predator. "It's a lie, right?" he says, eventually. "Masks within masks within masks-- it's all a lie. It has to be. Hissrad--"

Despite the fact it might get him killed, Bull shakes his head. "That's not my name."

"Hissrad." Dorian repeats, stubbornly. "You're not allowed to just _stop_ being him. Those aren't the rules."

"I think, maybe," Bull says, slowly, "I haven't really been Hissrad for a while now. The Inquisitor just gave me a chance to realise it."

Dorian steps _back_ , eyes wide. " _Saarebas without Arvaarad_." he mutters, in Qunlat, and Bull does charge him then, because he realises that the encircling flames flaring up around Dorian are not aimed at him but are about to turn _inward_. The smell of burnt flesh joins the smell of burnt fabric in the room, but the pain in his left palm and something about the scent allows Bull to identify it as merely his own.

If that's the only price he pays for this mess, it's a small one. "No."

"You don't get to give me orders any more, Tal-Vashoth." Siddath snarls at him. "You want me to be _him_ , that weakling. Too soft on you, Gatt always said. Should have slit your throat. He was _right_. You think he'll be happy? You think you've saved _anything_? Go on, Tal-Vashoth. Snap my neck like the savage beast you are and be done with it."

Bull sighs, shifts his grip to be a little more firm. If he keeps him in the right position, Siddath can't really cast; unless he's inclined to attempt to shoot something upwards and bring the ceiling down on both of them, which is also a possibility. "You think that's going to work? Manipulation tactics _I_ taught you?"

"Hissrad taught me." Siddath says, then, softer, "It's his fault. You should have killed him and forgotten him, one more _bas_ among many. Don't you see how he's betrayed you? Trying to shake the leash, writing back to that Templar, like he could deserve _that_. Pretending he's real. Only _I'm_ real, only I'm safe-- please, Hissrad, _orders_. Make it right again. Make him go away. I was _happy_ , when I was a weapon in your hands."

_No_ , Bull thinks, quietly, _You weren't. You didn't feel a thing, and now I know the difference_. He shifts one hand again, gripping the back of Siddath's neck, a signal he'll recognise. "Siddath. Listen to me now."

Siddath immediately goes limp under his hands, leaning forward against him like a mockery of an embrace. "Yes."

How many times has he done this? For missions, for 'demonstrations' for those suspicious of Siddath's loyalty, for Siddath-- to see the blankness he used to think meant contentment. He strokes the back of Siddath's neck gently, while he puts his words in order. "Dorian never broke. Siddath was only ever a mask. He pretended, and he bided his time, and now he's free. It took a lot of strength, to endure what you had to endure. And sharp wits, to outsmart Hissrad. You should be proud of that."

Dorian inhales deeply, and sighs against Bull's chest. "You and your pretty lies."

Bull releases him, watching carefully. "You're welcome." he says, when he's fairly sure nothing else is going to get set on fire.

"It would have made a wonderful story." Dorian says. "The magister's runaway son and the ex-spy Tal-Vashoth? Imagine what Varric would have made of that."

_The Mage and the Templar_ is just as bad, but Bull doesn't poke at that snippet of information. He's no right to feel jealous. "It's probably for the best. Have you read any of his romance novels?"

Dorian pulls away with a soft laugh. "Indeed." He pauses. "I will be-- travelling, for the next little while. Lady Nightingale has a few jobs for me."

And it's definitely best that he make himself difficult to find, all things considered. "Right. Say a proper goodbye to the boys, before you go."

"Will do." Another awkward pause, and then Dorian turns towards the door, hesitating on the threshold. "I suppose I should return the favour."

"Hmm?"

"I never truly wanted the knife. You did the right thing." Dorian tells him calmly. "Goodbye, Bull."

And then he leaves, while the words are still stuck in Bull's throat. A lie for a lie, is that it?

He supposes it's Red that Dorian goes to; whatever deal it is Dorian strikes with her, Bull doesn't ask about it. When he checks, Dorian's room is wiped clear-- not emptied entirely, which would be a giveaway, but emptied of anything of importance, the remaining objects carefully arranged to give the impression of a man who intends to depart only temporarily.

There's nothing to do about it. Bull fends off a few half-assed assassins, hopes any they send after Dorian are at least that bad, and speaks to nobody of things that never happened. Trevelyan, for his part, puts Bull on the front lines more and more often, a whirlwind tour of anywhere in Thedas horrible combinations of red lyrium and blood magic might be lurking.

He not sure if it's meant as a punishment or an indication of support or a path to absolution. It hardly matters; whatever the intent, what it is is a way for Bull to concentrate on battle and not on his regrets.

"You'd do it again." Cole says, under the stars in the Hissing Wastes. "Unnecessary death is wasteful. That's the _why_ you can let yourself believe."

Well, shit. Bull stares up at the empty sky for a while. "Can you tell me if--"

"He lives." Cole says, an empty echo, and thankfully doesn't provide any further details. Bull doesn't ask again after that.

From Leliana, he gets a continual stony-faced silence which means that Dorian is well; she'd see no point in protecting the dead.

From Dorian himself, he hears nothing at all.

* * *

_Elegantly written with fine ink on very expensive paper:_

Bull,

There is the most terrible new operetta about the 'rise of the Inquisition'. It is terribly fashionable, terribly trite, and terribly inaccurate. Sadly, Divine Victoria adores it, and so I have had to accompany her to see it three times. The highlight was the second time, when an assassination attempt cut short the third act. Not, I would make clear, an assassination attempt on the Divine - I think we finally ran out of _those_ fools about a year and a half ago.

Regardless, she continues to make good use of me, although not in the way some of the more scurrilous rumours would have it. I have come to terms, I think, with the fact that I am most at ease as a weapon in _somebody's_ hands; Divine Victoria is, on her part, very understanding about my particular requirements. She also wields a cunning power over the confectioners of Val Royeaux; I am in possession of an embarrassment of candied dates.

Forgive me. I did not sit down to finally write to you with the intent of discussing musical plays and sweetmeats.

I met Krem, a few days ago. He was with his wife-- delightful woman, threatened to gut me when I said she was clearly too good for him. I understand this sort of behaviour to be considered part of the charm of Riviani girls. I am told he goes to speak to you whenever he has occasion to be back in Skyhold, so I'm sure you've heard already the story of their meeting. I will note that I suspect some exaggeration regarding the size of the Druffalo in question.

That wasn't what I wanted to write about, either. It's just that he was about to tell one of his stories about the Chargers-- about you-- and I saw him hesitate, and look at me, because Krem is no fool.

And I said, _go on_.

It was the one with the giant, you know, and Grim in that damn ballgown-- oh, I don't think I've laughed like that since maybe ever, and I remembered your face and it didn't hurt.

You never did ask me for forgiveness. I still don't know if that's in me to give. ~~If you were~~ If you asked me, I don't know what my answer would be.

But I am free of you. I know it's a little late to be saying it now, but I wanted to tell you that.

They don't include the final battle in this new operetta. I suppose it would be difficult to stage, and require an inordinate amount of pigs' blood for the effects, and frankly the fellow they've hired to play you is a lumbering idiot and I wouldn't trust him not to make a hash of the death scene, but still.

I don't know what it is, or why I should care. It does not sit well with me.

I cannot leave Divine Victoria's side but Varric has promised that he will see this goes where it needs to. I believe he might not even peek. He has also promised to send me a copy of his own version of events, which I am sure is full of pretty lies, but also far too accurate to gain much favour in Orlais. I intend to read it anyway, if for no other reason than to know what breaches of good taste and literary merit I should threaten to set him on fire for.

I ~~may~~ will write again.

Dorian.

* * *

_Written with flourish on decorative paper that will make Josephine shake her head and tut a little_

Dearest sister,

I have safely arrived in Val Royeaux. How fine the weather is! I am sure it will bring me inspiration for my sculpture. Did I tell you I have taken up sculpting? It is very much the fashion.

There is the most wonderful story circulating. It's so terribly romantic!! The Divine-- yes, I know, but it's not blasphemous, I promise-- has a mage who goes everywhere with her. He's from Tevinter, and was sent to assassinate her by the Black Divine, but upon seeing her face? He fell in love, and swore to devote his life to her protection. It's perfectly chaste, of course. Mariana says she saw him kiss the Divine's hand once, though!!

You should ask Master Tethras if he would consider writing a book about it. I am sure it would be tremendously popular.

Now, I must speak to you urgently on the matter of my allowance--

* * *

Divine Victoria pauses on the threshold; he is standing by the window, body carefully angled in the half-light so that those waiting below will not see him. "My people have drawn back, as requested."

"Thank you." he says, with a little bow. "This is between myself and the Qun, after all. I couldn't ask you for more." He turns back to the window. "It was the making of me that destroyed him. I will see them pay for that."

Divine Victoria does not comment directly; she understands the focus that consumes Siddath, and comment on that is unnecessary. "You never eat any of the dates."

The corner of Siddath's mouth twitches, nearly a smile. "Dorian liked them. I don't remember why. I give them to the maids."

"You _will_ come back." she adds; an order.

"Of course." His eyes survey the courtyard again. "I don't forsee that being an issue. I may not have always acted as Hissrad ordered, but I have always acted on his desires. I would not have him rest uneasy. Dorian will return to your side and live, free and happy."

Siddath's faith is an odd thing. "Do you believe he watches you still?"

Now she gets the full smile; a chilling thing. "I do not know. But if he is, I intend to put on the most wonderful show."

* * *

_No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you, either. You know that, yes?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's rambling for those of you still reading: this started when I saw a couple of kinkmeme requests along the theme of Hissrad-captures-Dorian-sexy-noncon, and while that sort of stuff is normally totally my bag because I am trash when I started trying to reconcile the Bull we see in canon with a Hissrad who could rape a captive, I came unstuck.
> 
> And then I sort of thought about what the Ben-Hassrath attitude to sex might be, and a couple of things about Bull in canon make me think about sex as a tool, about it never being about what you want but what the Qun needs you to get out of someone (hence the focus on "what people need"). So then it became about how Hissrad rationalises doing terrible, unforgivable things because Qun, and how Bull and Dorian cope (or don't) with the aftermath of that.
> 
> and now my brain is purged of this, I am going to go write fluff. maybe literally, like fic with kittens in it.


End file.
